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FRANCIS 


UC-NRLF 


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EDY  OF  THE  S 


S-WEIR- MITCHELL 


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FRANCIS    DRAKE 


SDrageDp  of  ttje 


BY 


S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.  D.,  LL.  D.  HARV. 

AUTHOR   OF   "A   PSALM   OF   DEATHS,"    ETC. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 
<3L\$  ^ibersibe 

1893 


Copyright,  1892, 
Bv  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


TO 
M.  C.  M. 


M19138 


PEEFACE 


THE  difficulty  of  realizing  to-day  the  feelings 
and  motives  of  the  men  of  another  era  is  well 
illustrated  in  the  incidents  on  which  I  have 
based  the  dramatic  poem  of  "Francis  Drake." 
In  the  poetical  telling  of  it  I  have  adhered 
with  reasonable  fidelity  to  the  somewhat  varying 
statements  given  in  "  The  World  Encompassed" 
(1628),  Hakluyt  Society,  No.  16  ;  the  extracts 
of  evidence  as  to  the  trial  of  Doughty  from  the 
Harleian  manuscripts,  in  the  same  volume ;  Bar 
row's  life  of  Drake ;  and  an  admirable  but  brief 
biography  of  the  great  sea-captain  by  Julius 
Corbett,  in  English  Men  of  Action.  I  have  had 
neither  desire  nor  intention  to  make  of  this 
strange  story  an  acting  drama.  Doughty,  as  he 
is  drawn  by  Mr.  Corbett,  must  have  been,  as  he 
says,  an  lago  of  rare  type.  A  scholar,  a  soldier, 
a  gentleman  of  the  Inner  Temple,  more  or  less 
learned  in  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin,  he  seems 


vi  PEEFACE 

to  have  had  great  power  to  attract  the  affections 
of  men.  That  he  betrayed  his  friend's  trust, 
and  was  guilty  of  mutiny,  and  even  of  con 
templating  darker  crime,  appears  probable,  al 
though  as  to  the  details  of  this  sad  story  we 
know  little,  but  small  fragments  of  the  evidence 
given  on  the  trial  having  been  preserved.  The 
historian,  more  than  the  poet,  may  well  be  per 
plexed  at  the  nobler  characteristics  which  ap 
pear  in  this  singular  being  on  the  approach  of 
death.  It  is  here  that  the  judgments  of  to-day 
fail  us  before  the  account  of  the  quiet,  cheer 
ful  talk1  at  dinner  while  the  headsman  waits. 
An  immense  curiosity  fills  us  as  to  what  was 
said.  Then,  there  is  the  sacrament  taken  with 
Drake,  the  final  embrace,  the  remarkable  words 
of  quotation  from  Sir  Thomas  More,2  omitted 
in  the  play,  and  at  last  the  axe  and  block. 

1  "They  dined,  also  at  the  same  table  together,  as  cheer 
fully  in  sobriety  as  ever  in  their  lives  they  had  done  aforetime ; 
each  cheering  up  the  other,  and,  taking  their  leave,  by  drink 
ing  each  to  other,  as  if  some  journey  only  had  been  in  hand." 
(World  Encompassed,  p.  67.     Hakluyt  Society's  edition.  ) 

2  Doughty  is  credited  in  one  account  of  his  death  with  say 
ing  to  the  executioner,  when  about  to  lay  his  head  on  the 
block,    "  As  good  Sir  Thomas  More  said,    '  I  fear  thou  wilt 
have  little  honesty  [i.  e.  credit]  of  so  short  a  neck.'  " 


PREFACE  vii 

Except  as  to  one  anachronism,  which  I  leave 
the  critics  to  discover,  the  main  events  of  this 
dramatic  tale  are  on  the  whole  historically  cor 
rect.  It  is  likely  that  the  part  played  in  the 
poem  by  the  chaplain  would  be  justified,  had 
we  all  the  evidence.  His  disgrace  later  in  the 
voyage  throws  light  upon  his  conduct  at  the 
trial.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  there  is  no 
woman  in  this  tragic  story. 

BAB  HARBOR,  1892. 


FRANCIS   DRAKE 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  SEA 
TIME,  1578. 

Off  the  coast  of  Patagonia.     On  board  the  Pelican,  the  Eliza 
beth,  and  the  Plymouth. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

FRANCIS  DRAKE,  Admiral. 

THOMAS  DOUGHTY,  his  friend,  a  gentleman  venturer. 

FRANCIS  FLETCHER,  Chaplain. 

JOHN  WINTER,  "1 

LEONARD  VICART,      >  Captains. 

WILLIAM  CHESTER,  J 

SEAMEN. 

GENTLEMEN. 


FEANCIS  DEAKE 


Deck  of  the  Elizabeth.     Fleet  in  the  offing. 

JOHN  WINTER.     THOMAS  DOUGHTY. 
Doughty    (coming    aboard).     Good-morrow, 

Winter.      Still  the  winds  are  foul. 
I  would  they  blew  from  merry  England  shores. 
Winter.    I  would  they  had  not  blown  you  to 

my  ship. 

None  are  more  welcome  elsewhere.     Strict  com 
mands 
Forbid  this  visiting  from  ship  to  ship. 

Doughty.   These   orders  are  most  wise,  —  I 

doubt  not  that ; 

Yet  must  I  learn  that  any  here  afloat 
Is  master  of  the  gentlemen  who  venture 
Their  ducats  and  their  lives.   Let  him  make  laws 
To  rule  rough  sailors  ;  they  are  not  for  us. 
Winter.   Yet  one  must  be  the  master.    Ill  it 

were 
If,  drifting  masterless,  this  little  realm 


2  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Of  tossing  ships  obeyed  not  one  sure  helm. 

I  shall  best  serve  you  if  I  bid  you  go. 

Doughty.   The  Pelican  is  twice  a  league  away. 

'T  is  time  the  several  captains  of  the  fleet 

Should  learn  how  little  mind  the  seamen  have, 

Ay,  and  the  gentlemen,  to  hold  our  course. 

Now,  were  we  all  of  us  of  one  firm  mind, 

This  cheating  voyage  should  end,  and  that  full 
soon. 

This  in  your  ear.     Did  I  dare  speak  of  Leices 
ter  [  Winter  recoils. 

Winter.     Have  you  a  mind  to  lose  us  both 
our  heads  ? 

I  would  not  ill  report  you,  but  your  words 

Sail  near  to  treason,  both  to  Queen  and  friend. 

I  understand  you  not. 

Doughty.  Nor  always  I  myself. 

I  pray  you  but  this  once  be  patient  with  me. 

My  actions  shall  not  lack  support  in  England. 

If  I  might  dare  say  all,  you  best  of  any 

Would  know  the  admiral  has  no  better  friend. 

The  ships  decay  ;  the  sailors  mutiny ; 

Before  us  lies  a  waste  of  unknown  seas ; 

Methinks  authority  doth  beget  in  men 

A  certain  madness.     Think  you  if  we  chance 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  3 

To  ruin  peaceful  towns  and  scuttle  ships, 
And  rouse  these  Spanish  hornets  on  their  coasts, 
Think  you  the  dearest  counsellor  of  the  Queen  — 
I  dare  not  name  him  —  will  be  better  pleased 
With   him  that  hurts  or  him  that  helps   this 

voyage  ? 

Winter.   I  think  your  enterprise  more  peril 
ous 

Than  half  a  hundred  voyages,  good  friend,  — 
I  pray  you  risk  not  losing  of  the  name, 
For  you  are  greatly  changed  from  him  I  knew 
This  some  time  past  of  gentle  disposition  ; 
In  danger  tranquil ;  gay,  and  yet  discreet ; 
Learned  in  the  law,  a  scholar  and  a  soldier. 
Doughty.   An  old-time  nursery  trick :  comfits 

before, 
And  after  comes  the  dose  ;  then  sweets  again. 

Winter.    Be  not  so  hasty ;  hear  me  to  the  end, 
And  be  my  careful  friendship  early  pardoned. 
I   have  heard  you  say  of  late  you  lack  advance 
ment. 

There  is  advancement  no  man  need  to  lack 
Who  makes  his  Duty  like  a  mother's  knees, 
Where  all  his  prayers  are  said.     This  man  you 
were. 


4  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

What  other  man  is  this  I  hardly  know : 
One  that  of  all  his  natural  endowments 
Makes  but  base  use  to  stir  the  meaner  sort, 
To  darken  counsel  with  a  mist  of  words, 
To  scatter  falsehood,  and  to  sow  distrust ; 
And  all  as  lightly  as  a  housewife  flings 
The  morning  grain  amidst  her  cackling  crew. 
Doughty.   You  have  done  well  to  ask  my  par 
don  first. 

Winter.    Nay.    I  do  hold  the  bond  of  friend 
ship  strong; 

And  he  who  wills  to  keep  his  friends  must  know 
To  stomach  that  they  lack.     I  would  indeed 
You  had  not  spoken  as  you  have  to-day. 

Doughty.   What  matters  it  ?     My  words  are 

safe  with  you. 
Winter.     Safe   as   my   countenance  will  let 

them  be ; 

Safe  till  the  admiral  asks,  and,  like  a  boy, 
I  stand  a-twiddliug  of  uneasy  thumbs, 
On  this  foot,  now,  or  that,  red  in  the  face. 
By  Heaven!  what  fetched  you  on  this  hated  voy 
age? 

Doughty.   A  trick.     A  fetch  indeed! 
Winter.  Nay,  that 's  not  so. 


FEANCIS  DRAKE  5 

Trick  or  no  trick,  this  is  not  English  earth, 

Nor  Drake  the  man  who  on  the  Devon  greens 

Sat  half  the  night  a-talking  poesy. 

I  have  seen  many  men  in  angry  moods, 

But  this  man's  wrath  is  as  the  wrath  of  God, 

Instant  and  terrible.     Pray  you,  be  warned, 

And  if  your  soul  be  capable  of  fear  — 

Doughty.   Fear! 

Winter.   Ay,  a  healthful  virtue  in  its  place. 
Had  I  been  but  the  half  as  rash  as  you, 
My  very  sword  would  tremble  in  its  sheath. 

Doughty.    And  yet  I  have  no  nearer  friend 
than  he. 

Winter.   You  judge  men   by  their  love,  as 
maidens  do. 

Doughty.   And  not  an  ill  way,  either,  as  earth 

goes. 

The  admiral  in  his  less  distracted  times 
Hath  some  rare  flavour  of  the  woman  in  him. 

Winter.    Oh,  that 's  the  half  of  him  :  no  lady 

wronged, 

No  pillaged  church,  no  hurt  of  unarmed  man, 
Will  stain  his  record  at  the  great  account. 
Have  then  a  care.     The  gentle,  just,  and  brave 
Are  ill  to  anger. 


6  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

Doughty.  What  I  say  to  you 

I  not  less  easily  shall  say  to  him, 
Trusting  the  friendly  equity  of  his  love. 

Winter.   A  certain  devil  lurks  in  every  angel, 
Else  had  there  never  been  a  strife  in  heaven. 
Now  on  my  soul  I  wonder  at  the  patience 
Which    thrice   has   warned  you  as   a  brother 

might, 

And  once  removed  you  from  a  high  command. 
'T  is  very  strange  to  me  how  men  may  differ. 
No  doubts  have  I ;  along  these  savage  coasts 
Magellan  sailed.     Are  we  not  English  born  ? 

Doughty.    I  neither  have  forgotten  nor  forget. 
Thanks  for  your  patience.     There  is  more  to 

say 
That  might  be  said. 

Winter.  I  would  it  had  been  less. 

I  think  it  well  no  other  hears  your  words. 

Doughty.    Oh,  fear  not  I  shall  rashly  squan 
der  speech. 

Winter.    Spend  not  your  thoughts  at  all.    Be 

miserly. 

These  wooden  walls  have  echoes  ;  to  and  fro 
Some  wild  word  wanders,  till,  on  each  return, 
We  less  and  less  our  own  mind's  children  know. 


FEANCIS  DRAKE  7 

All  gold  they  say  goes  through  the  devil's  mint ; 
But  words  are  very  devils  of  themselves. 
I  do  commend  you  to  a  fast  of  speech. 

Doughty.   It  might  be  wise. 

Winter    (walks  to  the  rail).     Come,  let  us 

shift  the  talk. 

How  huge  and  bloody  red  the  moon  to-night ! 
This  utter  quiet  of  the  brooding  sea 
I  like  not  overwell ;  nor  yon  red  moon. 
So,  there  's  a  breeze  again,  and  now  't  is  still. 
We  shall  have  storms  to-morrow. 

Doughty.  More  's  the  reason, 

Before  our  ships  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 
That  I  should  speak  what  others  dare  not  speak. 

Winter.    I  '11  hear  no  more.    My  mother  used 

to  say 

That  silence  was  a  very  Christian  virtue. 
When  I  talk  folly,  be  the  Moon  my  friend  ; 
There  are  no  eavesdroppers  among  the  stars. 

Doughty.   Her  sex  they  say  are  leaky  coun 
sellors  ; 

And,  too,  she  shares  thy  secrets  with  a  man, 
Eed  i'  the  visage  now.     Here  's  three  to  keep 
Thy  pleasant  indiscretions. 

Winter.  Happy  Moon  ! 


8  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

That  ere  a  day  is  dead  shall  England  see. 
Ah,  gentle  dame,  shine  on  our  island  homes ; 
Kiss  for  my  sake  a  face  as  fair  as  thine ; 
Go  tell  our  love  to  every  maiden  flower 
That  droops  tear-laden  in  our  Devon  woods. 
Doughty.   I  dreamed  last  night   that  never 

more  again 
Should  I  see  England. 

Winter.  That  's  as  God  may  will. 

Doughty.    God  or  the  Devil ! 
Winter.  Hush !     When  night  is  come, 

And  all  the  mighty  spaces  overhead 
And  all  this  vast  of  sea  lie  motionless, 
God  seems  so  near  to  me,  ill  deeds  so  far, 
That  all  my  soul  in  gentled  wonder  bides. 

\They  are  silent  a  time. 
Doughty.    Mark  how  the  southward  splendour 

of  the  cross 
Shines  peace  upon  us.     When  the  nights  are 

calm, 

I  joy  to  climb  the  topmast's  utmost  peak, 
And,  hanging  breathless  in  the  unpeopled  void, 
Note  how  the  still  deep  answers  star  for  star. 
Winter.    See,  the  wind  freshens.     Get  you  to 
your  ship. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  9 

Come  not  again.     This  seeming  quiet  sea 
Is  not  more  dangerous  than  a  man  you  know. 
Doughty.    I    shall  not  spare  to  think  upon 

your  words. 

My  thanks,  and  pleasant  dreams.     Good-night. 
Winter.    Good-night. 

[Doughty  goes  to  his  boat. 


Cabin  of  Pelican. 
DRAKE.     VICARY.     WINTER. 

Winter.    It  sorts  not  with  my  honour  that  I 

speak. 
Drake.    Enough  to  know  John  Winter  will 

not  speak ; 

A  cruel  verdict  is  the  just  man's  silence. 
I  have  been  patient,  but  the  end  has  come. 
What  breeds  these   discontents?     I  know  the 

man. 

Were  he  twin  brother  of  my  mother's  womb 
He  should  not  live  to  mar  my  Prince's  venture. 
(To  Vicary.)    Are  you  struck  silent,  like  my 

good  John  Winter  ? 
What  substance  is  there  in  this  mutinous  talk  ? 


10  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Vicary.   Too  little  substance,  not  enough  to 

eat ; 

Too  much  of  parson,  and  some  empty  bellies. 
A  very  mutinous  thing  's  an  empty  paunch. 
Drake.   Now  here  's  a  man  has  never  a  plain 

answer. 
Out  with  it  in  good  English. 

Vicary.  As  you  will. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  my  way  of  speech ; 
I  cannot  help  it.    I  was  born  a-grinning, 
Or  so  my  mother  said.     If  death  's  a  jest, 
I  doubt  not  I  shall  never  die  in  earnest. 

Drake.    Now  on  my  soul  this  passes  all  en 
durance  ; 

Grin,  if  it  please  you,  but  at  least  speak  out. 
Vicary.    I  never  had  as  little  mind  to  speak. 
Drake.   I  have  heard  you  jesting  with  a  Span 
ish  Don 
When    sore    beset    and    wellnigh    spent    with 

wounds. 

I  think  some  counsel  lies  behind  your  mirth. 
Vicary.    "Were  I  the  admiral  I  would  preach 

a  sermon. 

Drake.   A  sermon ! 
Vicary.  Yea  !  and  that  a  yardarm  long, 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  11 

With  master  parson  for  sole  auditor. 
Also  good  rum  's  a  very  Christian  diet, 
And  vastly  does  console  a  shrunken  belly. 

Drake  (smiling).    Well,   my   gay   jester,  is 

there  more  to  say  ? 
Vicary.    I  have  sometimes  thought  we  carry 

on  our  ships 
Too  large  a  freight  of  time. 

Drake.  Talk  plain  again. 

It  takes  three  questions  to  beget  an  answer. 
Vicary.    Now,  as  the  world  runs,  that 's  un 
natural  many. 

Drake.    I  think  you  will  not  speak. 
Vicary.  No,  I  'm  run  dry. 

I  am  as  barren  as  a  widowed  hen. 

Drake  (laughing).    Out  with  you  !     Go  ! 
Vicary  (aside).    And  none  more  glad  to  go. 

[Exit  Vicary. 
Drake.    One  that  must  needs  be  taken  in  his 

humour. 
Winter.    'T  is  a  strange  disposition  that  hath 

mirth 
For  what  breeds  tears  in  others. 

Drake.  No,  not  strange. 

But  I  've  no  jesting  in  my  heart  to-day. 


12  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

The  straits  lie  yonder,  dark  and  perilous  ; 
The  Spaniards'  villainies  sit  heavy  here. 

[Strikes  his  breast. 

Their  racks  are  red  with  honest  English  blood  ; 
The  dead  call "  Come."    Ah,  Winter,  by  my  soul, 
When  Panama  is  ours,  when  their  galleons  lie 
Distressful  wrecks,  and  England's  banner  flies 
Unquestioned  on  the  far  Pacific  sea, 
Then  — 

Winter.    Is  it  so  ?      Kuns  your  commission 
thus? 

Drake.    Once  past  the  straits,  and  all  shall 

know  my  errand. 

Here  is  the  warrant  of  Her  Majesty, 
And  here  the  sword  she  bade  me  call  her  own. 

Winter.    Did  Doughty  know  of  this  ? 

Drake.  Ay,  from  the  first. 

Winter.    A  double  treason. 

Drake.  Counsel  me,  John  Winter. 

The  sailors  murmur,  and  the  gentlemen 
Sow  quarrels  and  dissension  through  the  fleet. 
My  dearest  friend  betrays  my  dearest  trust. 
What  means  this  gay  boy's  chatter  about  time  ? 

Winter.     A  riddle   easily  read,  if   you   but 

think 
What  use  the  devil  has  for  idle  hours. 


FEANCIS  DRAKE  13 

Drake.    I  have  long  meant  to  make  an  end 

of  that. 

Go  tell  these  lazy  gentles  Francis  Drake 
Bids  them  to  haul  and  pull  as  sailors  do ; 
Ay,  let  them  reef  and  lay  out  on  the  yards. 
I  '11  bid  'gainst  Satan  for  their  idleness. 
Belike  they  may  not  care  to  go  aloft ; 
Then,  on  my  word,  I  've  bilboes  down  alow. 
Winter.   Thou  wouldst  not  set  a  gentleman 

i'  the  stocks  ? 
Drake.   Parson  or   gentle,  let  them  try  me 

not. 

'T  is  said  a  gibbet  stands  on  yonder  shore : 
There  brave  Magellan  hanged  a  mutinous  Don. 
Let  them  look  to  it.     See  I  be  obeyed. 
None  shall  be  favoured.     Fetch  me  now  aboard 
This  traitor  Doughty,  and  no  words  with  him. 
Winter.   Ay,  ay,  sir. 

Drake.  Go.    Let  there  be  no  delay. 

[  Winter  in  his  boat  beside  the  Plymouth. 

Doughty    (descending).     What  means   this 

summons  ? 

Winter.  Hush  !     I  may  not  speak. 

Give  way  there,  men.     (To  Doughty.)     Have 
you  your  tablets  with  you  ? 

\Takes  them  and  writes. 


14  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

"Take  care.     Be  warned.     The  devil  is  broke 

loose." 

Doughty.     Is  it  so  ?    Why  am  I  bidden  ? 
Winter.  Way  there,  men ! 

Doughty.     Will  you  not  answer  me  ? 
Winter.  Not  I,  indeed. 

Way  there,  enough !     Ho,  there,  aboard ! 

[Doughty  goes  aboard  the  Pelican. 

Doughty.  Good-night. 

Deck  of  Pelican. 
DOUGHTY.    FLETCHER. 

Fletcher.    I  think  there  is  some  mischief  in 

the  air. 
'T  is  said  the  admiral  has  sent  for  you. 

Doughty.   I  'm  haled   aboard  with  no  more 

courtesy 

Than  any  meanest  ruffian  of  the  crew. 
Were  I  in  England  he  should  answer  me. 
Fletcher.    This  is  not  England. 
Doughty.  Oh,  by  heaven !  no ! 

(Aside.)    Time  must  be  won.     I  've  been  a  loi 
tering  fool. 

( Aloud.)    I  would  that  I  could  clear  my  mind 
to  you. 


FBANCIS  DBAKE  15 

Fletcher.    Why  not  to  me  ?     What  other  is 

so  fit? 
Is  not  confession  like  an  act  of  nature  ? 

Doughty.   I  am  like  a  wine  thick  with  con 
fusing  lees. 

To-day  they  settle,  and  to-morrow  morn 
Another  shakes  me,  and  I  'm  thick  again. 

[Fletcher  watches  him.    Both  are  silent  for  a  moment. 
Thou  art  both  man  and  priest. 

Fletcher.  Add  friend  to  both. 

Doughty.    You  said,  most  reverend  sir,  both 

man  and  priest. 

Had  you  been  more  of  man,  yet  all  of  priest, 
Confession  had  been  easier. 

Fletcher.  More  of  man ! 

Grant  you  I  lack  the  courage  of  the  sea, 
Think  you  it  takes  none  to  be  now  your  friend  ? 
I  have  the  will,  ay,  and  the  resolution, 
To  help  you  where  I  think  you  most  need  help. 
I  guess  the  half  your  lips  delay  to  tell. 

Doughty    (looking    about   him).      Enough. 

Time  passes,  and  you  should  know  all. 
My  Lord  of  Burleigh  much  mislikes  this  voy 
age. 
Who  helps  to  ruin  it  will  no  loser  be. 


16  FEANC1S  DRAKE 

Had  I  but  known  this  ere  my  florins  went 
To  aid  a  foolish  venture  ! 

Fletcher.  But  the  Queen  — 

Doughty.   Hath  ever  had  two  minds,  as  is  her 

way. 
(Points  north.)   Now  there  advancement  lies. 

(Points  south.)    And  that  way  death. 
Fletcher.    Thou  art  in  the  service  of  my  Lord 

of  Burleigh  ? 

Not  more  than  thou  am  I  the  admiral's  man. 
Doughty.   And  I  am  no  man's  man ;   I  am 

the  Queen's. 

I  shall  best  serve  my  God  in  serving  her. 
Shall  it  be  Prince  or  friend  ?     I  may  not  both. 
Fletcher.    Is  he  thy  friend  ? 
Doughty.  Of  late  I  doubt  it  much. 

Now  hath  he  closer  counsellors  than  I. 

Fletcher.    He  loves   thee    not.      This   ill-ad 
vised  voyage 

Goes  to  disaster  in  these  unknown  seas 
Where  some  foul  devil  led  the  sons  of  Rome. 
I  have  heard  that  demons  lit  them  down  the 

coast. 

This  nine  and  fifty  years  no  Christian  sail 
Has  gone  this  deathful  way.     The  admiral 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  17 

Knows  not  the  sullen  temper  of  the  fleet. 
(Looks  at  Doughty  steadily.')    There  should  be 

one  —  a  friend  —  to  bid  him  turn 
And  set   our  prows  toward  England.      Think 

upon  it. 
Doughty.   But  who  shall  bell  the  cat  ?    What 

mouse  among  us  ? 
Fletcher.     If  but  we  English  mice  were  of 

one  mind ! 
Doughty.    Soon  shall  we  be  so.     You  have 

unawares 

Made  firm  my  purpose.     'T  is  not  in  thy  kind 
To  court  such  peril  as  our  talk  may  bring. 
The    more    for    this    have    you    my    thanks. 

Enough. 
The  counsel  you  have  given  — 

Fletcher  (alarmed).  I  gave  you  none. 

Doughty.    Oh,  rest  you  easy.     It  is  safe  with 

me. 

As  you  are  priest,  so  I  am  gentleman ; 
Now  in  the  end  it  comes  to  much  the  same. 

Enter  CHESTER. 

Chester  (to  Doughty).     The  admiral  would 
see  you  instantly.  \Exit. 


18  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Cabin  of  Pelican. 

Drake.   I  could  wish  this  man  had  been  less 

dear  to  me. 

Another  I  had  long  since  crushed.     The  rat 
Which  gnaws  the  planks  between  our  lives  and 

death 

I  had  as  lightly  dealt  with.     For  love's  sake 
And  all  the  honest  past  that  has  been  ours 
Once  shall  I  speak.     Ay,  once  !  [A  knock. 

Ho,  there.     Come  in. 

Enter  CHESTER  and  DOUGHTY. 

Chester.   The  land  lies  low  to  westward,  and 

the  wind 

Blows  fair  and  steady.  [Drake  looks  at  the  chart. 

Drake.  Ay,  St.  Julian's  isle. 

[Exit  Chester. 

(To  Doughty.)   Pray  you  be  seated. 

Doughty.  I  am  ordered  hither. 

'T  were  fit  I  stand. 

Drake.  Yes,  I  am  admiral ; 

But  there  are  moments  in  the  lives  of  all 
When  the  stern  conscience  of  a  too  great  office 
Appals  the  kindlier  heart  that  fain  would  be 


FEANCIS  DRAKE  19 

Where  indecisions  breed  less  consequence. 

I  said,  be  seated.  [Doughty  obeys. 

Are  you  not  my  friend  ? 
Forget  these  rolling  seas,  the  time,  the  place, 
This  mighty  errand  which  my  Prince  has  sped. 
Think  me  to-day  but  simple  Francis  Drake, 
And  be  yourself  the  brother  of  my  heart. 

Doughty.   There  spoke  the  old  Frank  Drake 
I  seemed  to  lose. 

Drake.   Let  us  try  back.     We  are  like  ill- 
broken  dogs. 
Our  lives  have  lost  the  scent. 

Doughty.  Nay,  think  not  so. 

Drake.   Ah,  once  I  had  a  friend,  a  scholar 

wise, 

A  soldier,  and  a  poet ;  dowered,  I  think, 
With  all  the  gentle  gifts  that  win  men's  hearts. 
Of  late  he  seems  another  than  himself  ; 
Of  late  he  is  most  changed,  and  him  I  knew 
Is  here  no  more.     Ah,  but  I  too  am  double, 
And  one  of  me  is  still  thy  nearest  friend, 
And  one,  ah,  one  is  admiral  of  the  fleet. 
Let  him  that  loves  you  whisper  to  your  soul 
The  thing  he  would  not  say.     You  understand. 
Ah,  now  you  smile.     A  pretty  turn  of  phrase 


20  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Did  ever  capture  you.     'T  was  always  thus. 
We  have  seen  death  so  often,  eye  to  eye, 
That  fear  of  death  were  idle  argument ; 
Yet  in  such  words  of  yours  as  men  report 
A  deathful  sentence  lurks.     Oh,  cast  away 
These  mad  temptations,  won  I  know  not  whence. 
Last  night  I  fell  to  thinking,  ere  I  slept, 
Of  those  proud  histories  of  older  days 
You  loved  to  tell  amid  the  tents  in  Ireland. 
Trust  me,  no  one  of  these  that  shall  not  fade 
Before  the  wonder  of  this  English  tale 
Of  what  El  Draco  and  his  captains  did. 
And  when,  at  twilight,  by  our  Devon  hearths 
Some  old  man  tells  the  story,  shall  he  pause, 
And  say,  But  one  there  was,  of  England  born, 
That  sowed  the  way  with  perils  not  of  God, 
Breeding  dissension,  casting  on  his  name 
Dishonour  — 

Doughty  (leaping  up).   Now,  by  heaven !  no 

man  shall  say  — 

Drake  (smiling  and  quiet,  puts  a  hand  on 
each  shoulder  of  Doughty).    Hush !  you 
will  waken  up  that  other  man. 
Read  not  my  meaning  wrong.    I  am  sore  beset. 
Before  me  lie  dark  days.     The  timid  shrink ; 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  21 

The  gentlemen,  who  should  have  been  my  stay, 
Fall  from  me  useless.     Yet,  come  what  come 

may, 

For  England's  glory  and  my  lady's  grace, 
I  go  my  way.    Well  did  he  speak  who  said, 
"  Heaven  is  as  near  by  water  as  by  land." 
And  therefore,  whether  it  be  death  or  fame 
That  waits  in  yonder  seas,  I  go  my  way. 
Yet,  if  I  lose  you  on  this  venturous  road, 
Half  the  proud  joy  of  victory  were  gone. 
I  have  been  long ;  you,  patient.     Rest  we  here. 
Doughty.     Yes,  I  am  more  than  one   man; 

more  's  the  pity. 

If  I  have  sinned,  forgive  me,  and  good-night. 
Drake.    Thou  shalt  stay  with  me  on  the  Pel 
ican. 

Doughty  (aside).    So,  so.     A  child  in  ward  ! 
(Aloud.)    Again,  good-night.  [Exit. 

Enter  VICARY. 

Vicary.    The  water  shoals.     A  land  lies  west 

by  south. 

There  seems  good  anchorage  in  the  island's  lee. 
Drake.   We  shall  find  water  here,  good  fruit 

and  fish. 


22  FEANCIS  DEAKE 

Send  in  a  boat  for  soundings.     Signal  all 
To  anchor  where  seems  best ;  and  Vicary, 
Set  thy  gay  humour  to  some  thoughtful  care 
Of  him  that  left  just  now.     I  hold  him  dear. 
Vicary.   I  would  to  heaven  he  were  safe  in 

England. 
Drake.     And  I,  and  I.     He  is  more  like  a 

child 

Than  any  man  my  life's  experience  knows. 
Yet  he  is  dangerous  to  himself  and  us : 
Too  fond   of    speech;    too   cunning   with   the 

tongue, 

That  tempts  to  mischief  like  a  sharpened  blade. 
Vicary.      Ah,  words  !    words !    words !      Ye 

children  of  the  fiend, 
On  all  your  generated  repetitions 
Are  visited  your  parents'  wickedness. 
He  keeps  boon  company  with  each  man's  hu 
mour, 

Is  gay  with  me,  is  chivalrous  with  you, 
At  Winter's  side  a  grave  philosopher. 
I  shall  set  merry  sentinels  for  his  guards, 
And  there  my  wisdom  ends. 

Drake,.  My  thanks.     No  more. 

[Exit  Vicary. 


FEANCIS  DRAKE  23 

Deck  of  Pelican.     Ships  at  anchor  near  the  north 
end  of  the  island. 

DOUGHTY.     WINTER.    SEAMEN. 

Winter.   These  are  my  orders. 

Doughty.  I  may  not  to  shore, 

And  for  the  reason  ?     Drake  shall  give  it  me. 
(Turns  to  the  men.)    I  hear  there  is  no  water 
on  these  shores. 

\st  Sailor.  That  in  the  casks  is  but  mere 
mud  of  vileness  ;  rot  in  the  mouth,  and  stenches 
in  the  nose. 

2d  Sailor.  And  for  the  biscuits,  they  are 
mouldy  green,  and  inhabited  like  an  owl's  nest 
with  all  manner  of  live  things. 

3c?  Sailor.  It  will  be  worse  in  the  lower  seas. 
There  the  men  are  eleven  cubits  tall. 

2d  Sailor.    Nay,  feet,  and  that 's  enough. 

4ith  Sailor.  Where  scurvy  Dons  have  gone, 
good  English  may. 

Doughty.    We  gentles  are  no  better  off  than 

you. 

Here  is  an  order  we  shall  pull  and  haul, 
And  lay  aloft.     What !     Lack  ye  meat  to-day  ? 


24  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Here  are  grubs  to  spare.     These  caverned  bis 
cuits  hold 
Small   beeves   in  plenty.     Here  's  more  life,  I 

think, 
Than  we  are  like  to  find  on  yonder  coast. 

"Lst  Sailor.  A  Portugee  did  tell  me  once 
there  was  no  day  in  the  straits  where  we  must 
sail,  and  all  the  sea  be  full  of  venomed  snakes. 

Doughty.  Nay.  That  's  a  foolish  fable. 
True  it  is  that  in  the  straits  are  mighty  isles  of 
ice,  with  sail  and  mast.  They  beat  about,  men 
say,  like  luggers  on  a  wind,  and  never  man  to 
handle  rope  or  sail. 

Fletcher.  The  boats  are  come  again,  and  no 
water,  none !  Alas,  this  miserable  voyage  ! 

Enter  VICARY  from  boat. 

Vicary.   Not  so,  good  chaplain.     Underneath 

a  cliff 

I  found  a  spring  as  sweet  as  England's  best. 
Good  store  of   shellfish  too,  and  these  strange 

fruits. 

(To  Doughty.)  You  're  but  an  old -wife  at 
these  fireside  tales.  Lord,  lads !  there  's  won 
ders  yonder.  It  is  twice  as  good  as  a  fair  in 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  25 

May.  There  is  a  merry-go-round  that  's  called 
a  swirlpool.  Round  you  go,  a  hundred  years, 
ship  and  all,  not  a  farthing  to  pay,  and  then 
home  to  bed,  with  addled  pates,  as  good  as 
drunk,  and  no  man  the  poorer.  [The  men  laugh. 

1st  Sailor  (aside).  He  do  lie  to  beat  a  rusty 
weathercock. 

2d  Sailor.  But  men  do  say  there  's  hell-traps 
set  along  the  rocks,  and  all  the  waters  boil  like 
witch's  pots. 

Vicary  (laughs).  The  tale  is  gone  awry. 
When  last  I  sailed  this  way,  no  fire  would  burn, 
and  all  the  little  fiends  were  harvesting  of  mighty 
icicles  to  keep  the  daddy  devils  from  frosted  toes. 

1st  Sailor  (aside).  He  be  a  lively  liar.  He 
be  a  very  flea  among  liars.  [^tf  laugh. 

Vicary.    The  seas  be  rum,  and  all  the  whales 
mad  drunk.  [Laughter. 

I  thought  my  laughter  trap  was  baited  well. 

4th  Sailor  (aside).  He  don't  starve  his  lies. 
A  very  pretty  liar.  His  lies  be  fat  as  ever  a 
Christmas  hog. 

Vicary.   Tom  Doughty,  I  '11  match  lies  with 

you,  my  lad, 
The  longest  day  of  June.     A  song,  a  song ! 


26  FEANCIS  DEAKE 

Sailors.   A  song,  a  song !     The  captain  for 

a  song ! 

That  song  the  captain  made  the  day  we  sailed 
From  Cadiz  road,  and  left  their  fleet  ablaze. 
Vicary.   Here  's  for  a  song.     The  admiral 

bids  say 

Your  rum  is  doubled  for  a  week  to  come. 
So  here  we  go.     Be  hearty  with  the  burden. 

SONG. 

Queen  Bess  has  three  bad  boys, 

Such  naughty  boys ! 
They  sailed  away  to  Cadiz  bay 
To  make  a  mighty  noise. 
Heave  her  round ! 
Heave  her  round ! 
Such  bad  boys ! 
Yoho! 

There 's  wicked  Master  Drake, 
As  likes  to  play  with  guns  ; 
He  sailed  away  to  Cadiz  bay 
To  wake  the  sleepy  Dons. 

Heave  her  round !  etc. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  27 

These  be  three  captains  small, 
None  taller  than  a  splinter. 
One  does  admire  to  play  with  fire, 
That 's  little  Jacky  Winter. 
Heave  her  round  !  etc. 

There  's  one  does  love  to  fight, 
It  might  be  Billy  Chester. 
And  they  're  away  to  Cadiz  bay 
Before  a  stiff  sou'-wester. 

Heave  her  round  !  etc. 

Don  Spaniard  sings,  Avast ! 
What 's  doing  with  them  grapples  ? 
We  're  just  Queen  Bess's  naughty  boys, 
We  're  only  stealing  apples. 
Heave  her  round  !  etc. 

They  filled  their  little  stomachs, 
They  had  a  pretty  frolic. 
The  boys  as  ate  the  apples  up 
Was  n't  them  as  had  the  colic. 
Heave  her  round !  etc. 

Small  Frank,  he  shot  his  gun, 
And  Willy  played  with  fire. 


28  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

To  see  those  naughty  boys  again 
No  Spaniard  do  desire. 

Heave  her  round !  etc. 

Vicary.    Well  tuned,  my  lads.     Now  who  of 

you  's  for  shore  ? 
Doughty  (aside  to  a  mate).   There  '11   be  no 

songs  down  yonder. 

Winter  (leaning  over  him).   What,  again  ? 
More  mischief,  ever  more  ?     Dark  is  the  sea 
Where  you  will  sail.    What  fiend  possesses  you  ? 
This  in  your  ear.    The  priest  is  no  man's  friend. 
If  I  do  know  the  malady  of  baseness, 
There  's  one  that  needs  a  doctor. 

Doughty.  You  are  wrong. 

I  have  no  better  friend,  none  more  assured. 
Winter.   Indeed,  I  think  you  are  too  rich  in 

friends. 

Better  you  had  a  hundred  eager  foes 
Than  this  man's  friendly  company.     One  step 

more, 

One  slight  excess  of  speech,  some  word  retold,  — 
And  thou  art  lost  to  life. 

Doughty.  He  dare  not  do  it ! 

Winter.    Dare    not!      I    think   it    oft   doth 
chance  a  man 


FEANCIS  DRAKE  29 

Knows  not  his  nearest  friend  as  others  do. 
As  for  thy  priest,  —  I  greatly  fear  a  coward. 
The  day  will  come  when  honest  Francis  Drake 
Will  shake  all  secrets  from  him  as  a  dog 
Shakes  out  a  rat's  mean  life.     Beware  the  day  ! 
Well  do  I  know  the  admiral's  silent  mood  ; 
Then  should  men  fear  him,  and  none  more  than 

you, 
Because  he  dreads  the  counsel  of  his  heart. 

[Exit  loth. 

Deck  of  the  Pelican.  Evening,  a  week  later.  The 
fleet  at  anchor  near  the  south  end  of  the  island 
of  St.  Julian.  Sailors  at  the  capstan. 

Winter.    Now,  then,  to  warp  her  in.     Round 

with  the  capstan. 
Sailors  and  gentlemen,  bear  all  a  hand  ! 

Doughty.   Not  I,  by  heaven !     Not  I !     My 

father's  son 

Stains  not  his  sword-hand  with  this  peasant  toil. 
Gentlemen.   Nor   I !   nor  I !  nay,  never  one 

of  us. 

Winter.   Do  as  I  bid  you ! 
Doughty.  Not  a  hand  of  mine 

Shall  to  this  sailor  work. 


30  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Winter.  That  shall  we  see. 

[  Walks  to  the  cabin.    Boatswain  whistles.     Men  man 
the  capstan,  singing. 

Yo  ho !     Heave  ho ! 

Oh,  it 's  ingots  and  doubloons, 

Oh,  it 's  diamonds  big  as  moons, 

As  we  sail, 

As  we  sail. 

Yo  ho !     Heave  ho  ! 

Oh,  it 's  rusty,  crusty  Dons, 
And  it 's  rubies  big  as  suns, 
As  we  sail,  etc. 

Oh,  it 's  pieces  by  the  scores, 
And  it 's  jolly  red  moidores, 
As  we  sail,  etc. 

Oh,  we  '11  singe  King  Philip's  beard, 
And  no  man  here  afeard, 
As  we  sail,  etc. 

Enter  VICARY. 

Vicary.    Well  sung.    Well  hauled,  my  lads. 
{To  Doughty.')    A  word  with  you. 


FRANCIS  DEAKE  31 

You  will  attend  the  admiral  in  his  cabin. 
(Aside  to  Doughty.)    Ware    cat,  good   mouse  ! 

The  claws  are  out  to-night ! 
Doughty.    'T  were    better   soon    than  later. 
After  you.  \E™*- 

Cabin  of  Pelican. 

DRAKE.    WINTER. 

Enter  VICARY,  followed  by  DOUGHTY. 

Drake.   Pray  you  be  seated.    (To  Doughty.) 

Nay,  not  you,  not  you. 
(To  Winter.)    Arrest  this  gentleman. 

Winter.  Your  sword,  an  't  please  you. 

[Receives  it. 

Drake.   I  charge   you   here  with  treason  to 

the  Queen. 
You  shall  to  trial  with  no  long  delay. 

Doughty.    What  court  is  this  with  which  you 

threaten  me  ? 
Drake.   Now,   by   St.    George,   your   lawyer 

tricks  and  quibbles 

Shall  help  you  little.     I  am  Francis  Drake, 
The  Queen's  plain  sailor,  and  the  master  here. 
Doughty.   Master ! 


32  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Drake.  Ay,  master  !  Traitor  to  the  Queen, 
This  long  account  is  closed.  All,  all  is  known, 
Since  when,  at  Plymouth,  on  the  eve  we  sailed, 
My  Lord  of  Burleigh  bought  you;  what  the 

price, 
The  devil  knows  —  and  you. 

Doughty.  My  Lord  of  Burleigh  ! 

I  pray  you  speak  of  this  with  me  alone. 
What  I  would  say  is  for  a  secret  ear. 

Drake.   No,  by  my  sword,  not  I ! 

Doughty.  Then  have  thy  way. 

No  law  can  touch  me  here.     This  is  not  Eng 
land. 

Drake.    Where  sails  a  plank  in  English  for 
ests  hewn, 

There  England  is.     This  deck  is  England  now, 
And  I  a  sea-king  of  this  much  of  England. 
Put  me  this  man  in  irons !     See  to  it ! 
Let  him  have  speech  of  none  except  yourselves. 

\Exit  Winter  and  Doughty. 
{To  Vicary.^)    I  have  too  long  delayed. 

Vicary.  That  may  well  be. 

Drake.   I  hear  he  hath  great  favour  with  the 

crews, 
A  maker  of  more  mischief  than  I  guessed. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  33 

Vicary.    Men  love  him  well. 
Drake.  He  hath  too  many  friends. 

This  is  the  very  harlotry  of  friendship. 
Go  now,  and  pray  that  when  command  is  yours 
You  have  no  friends.     See  that  strict  guard  be 
kept.  [Exit  Vicary. 

(Alone.*)    I  would   that   God  had   spared   me 
this  one  hour. 

Pelican.     DOUGHTY  in  irons  on  the  deck,  seated  upon 
a  coil  of  ropes,  leaning  against  a  mast. 

Winter  (to   the   guards).     Back   there,  my 

men ! 

Doughty.   You  are  most  welcome,  Winter. 
I  am  very  glad  of  company.     My  soul 
Is  sick  to  surfeit  of  its  own  dull  thoughts. 
I  like  not  lonely  hours.     What  land  is  that  ? 
Winter.  St.  Julian's  cape. 
Doughty.  Is  that  a  cross  I  see  ? 

It  seems,  I  think,  the  handiwork  of  man. 

Winter.   No  cross  is  that ;  there  stout  Magel 
lan  hanged 
Don  Carthagene,  vice-admiral  of  his  fleet. 

Doughty.  Wherefore  ? 


34  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

Winter.    'T  is  said  he  did  dislike  the  voyage, 
And  had  no  mind  to  pass  the  narrow  straits. 
Doughty.   The  strait  he  chose  was  narrower  ; 

mayhap 
He  had  no  choice  —  as  I  may  not  to-morrow. 

[/s  silent  a  few  moments. 

A  little  while  ago,  the  scent  of  flowers 

Came  from  the  land.     Their  nimble  fragrance 

woke, 

As  by  a  charm,  some  sleeping  memories. 
I  dreamed  myself  again  a  fair-haired  boy, 
A-gathering  cowslips  in  my  mother's  fields. 

[Pauses. 

There  is  no  order  that  I  shall  not  sing  ; 
I  can  no  mighty  treason  set  to  song. 

Winter.   Sing,  if  it  please  you.     I  '11  be  glad 

it  doth. 
What  song  shall 't  be? 

Doughty.  Ah  me,  those  Devon  lanes ! 

[Sings. 

SONG. 

I  would  I  were  an  English  rose, 
In  England  for  to  be  ; 
The  sweetest  maid  that  Devon  knows 
Should  pick,  and  carry  me. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  35 

To  pluck  my  leaves  be  tender  quick, 
A  fortune  fair  to  prove, 
And  count  in  love's  arithmetic 

Thy  pretty  sum  of  love. 

[The  men  come  nearer. 

Oh,  Devon's  lanes  be  green  o'ergrown, 
And  blithe  her  maidens  be, 
But  there  be  some  that  walk  alone, 
And  look  across  the  sea. 

~Lst  Sailor.     'T  is  a  sad  shame  so  gay  a  gen 
tleman 
Should  lie  in  irons. 

U  Sailor.  Ay,  the  pity  of  it. 

Winter  (to  the  men).  Off  with  you  there ! 
{To  Doughty.)  The  devil's  in  your 
tongue ! 

"Why  must  you  sing  of  England?     Follow  me. 
I  think  you  would  breed  mutiny  in  heaven. 

[Exit. 
Cabin  of  Pelican. 

DRAKE.     Enter  FLETCHER. 

Fletcher.  I  am  come  as  bidden.  What  may 
be  your  will  ? 

Drake.  Think  you  a  man  may  serve  two  mas 
ters  ? 


36  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

Fletcher.  Nay, 

'T  is  not  so  writ. 

Drake.  Yet  there  are  some  I  know 

Would  have  me  serve  a  dozen,  and  my  Queen. 
Shall  I  serve  this  man's  doubt,  and  that  man's 

fear? 

Who  bade  these  cowards  follow  me  to  sea  ? 
And  you,  that  are  Christ's  captain,  —  what  of 

you? 

Were  I  a  man  vowed  wholly  unto  God, 
I  should  have  courage  both  of  God  and  man ; 
And  fear  's  a  malady  of  swift  infection. 

Fletcher.   I  think  my  captain  has  been  ill  in 
formed. 
Drake.   Ah,  not  so  ill.     Look  at  me,  in  the 

face; 

A  man's  eyes  may  rest  honest,  though  his  soul 
Be  deeper  damned  than  Judas.     Thou  art  false ! 
False  to  thy  faith,  thy  duty,  and  thy  Prince  ! 
Now,  if  thou  hast  no  righteous  fear  of  God  — 
By  heaven !  here  stands  a  man  you  well  may  fear. 
Fletcher.   Indeed  I  know  not  how  I  've  an 
gered  you. 

Drake.   Thou  shalt  know  soon.    And  —  look 
not  yet  away  — 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  37 

You  have  hatched  treason  with  the  larger  help 
Of   one   that  hath  more  courage.     Spare   him 

not 

If  you  have  hope  to  see  another  day. 
What  of  your  plans?      I   charge   you,   sir,  be 

frank. 
What  has  he  told  that  you  should  fear  to  tell? 

Fletcher.   We  did  but  talk.     Haply  I  may 

have  said 

I  do  not  love  the  sea,  that  some  aboard 
Would  be  well  pleased  to  stand  on  English  soil. 

Drake.    If   you   have  any   wisdom    of    this 

world, 

A  coward  heart  may  save  a  foolish  head. 
I  asked  you  what  this  coward  Doughty  said  ; 
You  answer  me  with  babble  of  yourself. 
Speak  out,  or,  by  my  honour,  —  no  light  oath,  — 
I  shall  so  score  you  with  the  boatswain's  lash 
That  Joseph's  coat  shall  be  a  mock  to  yours. 

Fletcher.   You  would  not  —  dare  — 

Drake.  I  think  you  know  me  not. 

You  have  my  orders.     Is  it  yes,  or  no  ? 

Fletcher.   I  pray  you,  sir,  consider  what  you 

ask. 
No  priest  of  God  may,  without  deadly  sin, 


38  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Speak  what  m  penitence  a  troubled  soul 
Has  in  confession  whispered.     Ask  me  not. 

Drake.    If  I  do  understand  your  words  aright, 
Save  for  the  idle  talk  of  idle  men, 
He  hath  said  nought  to  you  except  of  sin 
Such  as  the  best  may  in  an  hour  of  shame 
Tell  for  the  soul's  relief.     If  this  be  so, 
Nor  I,  nor  any  man,  may  question  you. 

Fletcher.   I  do  assure  you  that  I  spoke  the 

truth. 

Drake  (perplexed^  walks  to  and  fro.     Turns 

suddenly r,  offering  the  hilt  of  his  sword). 

Swear  it  upon  the  cross-hilt  of  my  sword. 

Swear  !  [Fletcher  hesitates. 

As  my  God  is  dear,  thou  art  more  false 

Than  hell's  worst  devil.     Ho  !    Without  there ! 

Ho! 

Fletcher.   Nay,  I  will  swear. 
Drake.  Too  late.    Without  there !    Ho! 

Send  me  the  boatswain's  mate.    Without  there ! 

Ho! 

If  I  confess  thee  not,  thou  lying  priest, 
May  I  die  old,  —  die  quiet  in  my  bed. 
Ho  there  !     And  quick  ! 

Fletcher.  I  pray  you  — let  me  think. 


FEANCIS  DEAKE  39 

It  may  be  that  I  did  not  understand. 

It  might  be  that  he  talked  to  me,  a  man, 

As  man  to  man.     I  think  't  was  even  so. 

Drake.  Out  with  it  —  quickly !  Speak !    Out ! 
Out  with  it ! 

Fletcher.   I  think  he  said  the  purpose  of  this 

voyage 

Was  hid,  and  all  of  us  are  cheated  men. 
It  seems  he  said  that  if  the  gentles  here 
Were  of  one  mind,  and  stirred  the  crews  to  act, 
We  might  see  England  and  our  homes  again. 

Drake.    What  more? 

Fletcher.      As  who  should  take  to  bell  the  cat 
As  that  the  Queen  your  errand  did  not  guess. 

Drake.    So!     Said   he    that?     Go    on;   thy 
tale  lacks  wit. 

Fletcher.    Also,  that  storms  and  vexing  winds 

and  currents 
Did  show  God's  will. 

Drake.  I  think  you  trifle  with  me. 

Did  he  talk  ever  of  my  Lord  of  Burleigh  ? 

Fletcher.    I  fear  to  speak. 

Drake.  Fear  rather  to  be  silent. 

Here  lies  the  warrant  of  her  Majesty  : 
'T  is  she,  not  I,  commands. 


40  FBANCIS  DEAKE 

Fletcher.  He  seemed  to  say 

They  would  best  serve  my  Lord  of  Burleigh's 

wish 
Who   marred  this  venture,    ere  the   power  of 

Spain 
Was  roused  to  open  war.    I  can  no  more. 

Drake.    See  that  your  memory  fail  not  on  the 

morrow  ! 

Go  thank  the  devil  in  your  prayers  to-night 
For  that  your  skin  is  whole.    Begone  !    Begone ! 

[Exit  Fletcher. 

Now  know  I  what  it  costs  a  woman-prince 
To  keep  her  realm.     The  great  should  have  no 
friends. 

Enter  VICARY,  WINTER,  and  CHESTER. 

Drake.    Call  all  the  captains  and  the  officers. 
The  court  shall  meet  to-morrow  morn,  at  eight. 
There  shall  be  charges  ready  in  due  form  ; 
You,  all  of  you,  shall  hear  the  witnesses. 
And,  Winter,  —  we  are  far  from  England  now,  — 
See  that  this  trial  be  in  all  things  fair, 
As  though  each  man  of  you,  an  ermined  judge, 
Sat  in  Westminster.     Let  no  words  of  mine 
Disturb  the  equities  of  patient  judgment. 


FEANCIS  DEAKE  41 

I  would  not  that,  when  you  and  I  are  old, 

Uneasy  memories  of  too  hasty  action 

Should  haunt  us  with  reproach.      But  have  a 

care. 

My  duty  knows  no  friend  ;  be  thine  as  ignorant. 
Our  fortunes  and  the  honour  of  the  Queen  — 
I  should   have   said    her   honour   and   our  for 
tunes  — 
Eest   in   your   hands.     See    that  my  words  be 

known. 

Winter.    To  all? 

Drake.  To  all,  sailors  and  gentlemen. 

[Exit  the  captains. 

WINTER,  VICARY,  and  CHESTER  without. 

Chester.     I  'm  like  a  child  that  fain  would 

run  away 
To  'scape  a  whipping. 

Winter.  There  are  none  of  us 

More  sore  at  heart  than  Drake. 

Vicary.  I  know  of  one. 

I  would  a  friend  were  dead  ere  break  of  day, 
And  all  to-morrow's  story  left  untold. 
I  think  that  I  shall  never  laugh  again. 

[They  reach  the  deck. 


42  FBANCIS  DRAKE 

Chester  (pointing  to  the  gibbet  on  the  shore). 

It  may  be  yon  long-memoried  counsellor 
Made  hard  the  admiral's  heart. 

Vicary.  That  might  be  so. 

I  wandered  thither,  yesterday,  at  eve, 
And  found  a  skull.     Didst  ever  notice,   Win- 

ter, 

How  this  least  mortal  relic  of  a  man 
Does  seem  to  smile?     Hast  ever  talked  with 

skulls? 

They  are  courteous  ever,  and  good  listeners. 
And  never  one  of  them,  or  man  or  maid, 
That  is  not  secret.     There  's  another  virtue ; 
For  what  more  honest   and  more  chaste  than 

death? 
Now,  then,  this   skull,  that   grins   an  hundred 

years,  — 
Pray    think   how   mighty   must   the   jest   have 

been; 

And  then,  how  transient  are  our  living  smiles. 
Winter.    Ill-omened  talk.     A  graver  business 

waits. 
Vicary.   Give  me  an  hour.     I  am  not  well 

to-day. 
I  will  be  with  you  very  presently.     [Exit  Vicary. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  43 

Evening  of  the  day  of  the  trial  and  condemnation 
of  DOUGHTY.  Time,  sunset.  Ashore  on  St.  Ju 
lian's  Island. 

WINTER.    VICARY.     DRAKE. 
DRAKE  walking  to  and  fro  under  the  trees. 

Winter  (coming  up  and  walking  beside  him). 

What  orders  are  there  ? 

Drake.  See  the  prisoner, 

And  bid  him  choose  the  hour  and  the  day. 
Winter.   And  for  the  manner  of  the  execu 
tion  ? 

The  court  said  nothing ;  sir,  it  lies  with  you. 
What  is  your  pleasure  ? 

Drake.  Say  my  will,  John  Winter. 

The  gallows  and  the  rope ! 

Vicar y  (approaching).      Must  it  be  so  ? 
That  is  a  dog's  death,  not  a  gentleman's. 
Drake.    I  have  at  home  a  very  honest  dog. 
Vicary.    Wilt  pardon   me   if   once   again  I 

plead? 
Drake.   Plead   not  with  me.     No  plea  the 

heart  can  bring 
My  own  heart  fails  to  urge. 


44  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Winter.  I  made  no  plea. 

The  man  I  loved,  this  morn  for  me  was  dead. 
But  there  are  those  in  England  —  far  away  — 
Mother  and  sister  — 

Drake.  Sir,  you  have  my  orders  ! 

Henceforth  no  friends  for  me  !    This  traitor  dies, 
As  traitors  all  should  die,  a  traitor's  death. 
The  man's  life  judges  him,  not  you,  nor  I. 

Vicar y.    Indeed,  the  manner  of  a  man's  de 
parture, 

Whether  upon  a  war-horse  or  an  ass, 
Doth  little  matter,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
If  those  he  leaves  feel  not  the  fashion  of  it. 
Now,  many  a  year  that  rope  will  throttle  me, 
Who  am  no  traitor,  and  who  like  not  well 
What  treachery  this  man's  nature  moved  him  to. 

Drake.    It  seems  to  me  that  good  men's  lives 

are  spent 

In  paying  debts  another  makes  for  them. 
I  have  my  share.     Take  you  your  portion,  too. 
Be  just,  I  pray  you,  both  to  him  and  me. 
Now,  here  's  a  man  that  was  my  closest  friend. 
In  Plymouth,  ay,  in  London,  ere  we  sailed, 
Against  the  pledge  myself  had  given  the  Queen, 
He  told  the  purpose  of  my  voyage  to  Burleigh, 


FBANCIS  DEAKE  45 

Pledging  himself  to  wreck  this  enterprise, 
Lest  we  should  rouse  these  Spanish  curs  to  bite. 
That  I  do  hold  the  warrant  of  the  Queen 
Only  this  traitor  knew,  and,  knowing  it, 
Has  set  himself  to  brewing  discontent, 
Stirred  mutiny  amidst  my  crews,  cast  wide 
The  seed  of  discord,  till  obedience, 
That  is  the  feather  on  the  shaft  of  duty, 
Failed,  and  my  very  captains  questioned  me. 
One  man  must  die,  or  this  great  venture  dies  ; 
This  man  must  die,  or  we  go  backward  home, 
Like  mongrel  dogs  that  fear  a  shaken  stick. 

Winter.   Yet  none  of  us  have  asked  his  life 

of  you. 

Drake.  I  ask  it  of  myself  ;  shall  ask  it,  sir, 
Knowing  how  vain  and  pitiful  my  plea. 
I  have  said  nothing  of  the  darker  charge, 
The  covert  hints,  the  whispering  here  and  there 
Of  how  my  death  might  please  my  Lord  of  Bur- 

leigh, 

And  settle  all  these  mutinous  debates. 
I  think  't  was  but  an  idle  use  of  speech ; 
I  think  he  meant  not  it  should  come  to  aught. 

Winter.   Nor  I. 

Vicary.        Nor  I.     He  hath  confessed  to  all 
Except  this  single  charge.     That  he  denied. 


46  FRANCIS  DEAKE 

Drake.   And  now  no  more !     And  hope  not  I 

shall  change. 

Yet  will  I  well  consider  all  your  words. 
Rest  you  assured  if  there  be  any  way 
That  both  secures  the  safety  of  this  voyage 
And  leaves  this  man  to  future  punishment, 
I  shall  not  miss  to  find  it. 

Winter.  That  were  well. 

I  somewhat  fear  the  temper  of  the  men. 
And  these  grave  statesmen,  closeted  at  home, 
Have  slight  indulgence  for  the  sterner  needs 
That  whip  us  into  what  seems  rash  or  cruel. 
Drake.   Ah,  many  a  day  'twixt  us  and  Eng 
land  lies, 

And  the  peacemaker's  blessing  rests  on  tune. 
If  death  await  me  in  the  distant  seas, 
I  shall  not  fear  to  meet  a  higher  Judge. 
If  fortune  smile  upon  our  happy  voyage, 
No  man  in  England  that  will  dare  to  say 
I  served  not  well  my  country  and  my  God ; 
The  Queen  will  guard  my  honour  as  her  own. 
But,  come  what  may,  sirs,  I  shall  act  unmoved 
By  any  dread  of  what  the  great  may  do, 
Though  we  should  prick  this  sullen  Spain  to 
war. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  47 

Vicary.    Now,  by  St.  George,  could  we  but 

stir  the  Dons 

To  open  fight !     The  Queen  has  many  minds, 
But  when  the  blades  are  out,  and  Philip  strikes, 
As  strike  he  will,  these  wary  counsellors 
Will  lose  her  ear  amid  the  clash  of  swords. 
Drake.    Pray  God  that  I  do  live  to  see  the 

day 

When  all  the  might  of  England  takes  the  sea, 
And  we,  that  are  the  falcons  of  the  deep, 
Shall  tear  these  cruel  vultures,  till  our  beaks 
Drip  red  with  Spanish  blood  ! 

Vicary.  May  I  be  there  ! 

Drake  (gravely).    Trust  me,  we  all  shall  live 

to  see  that  hour. 

God  gives  us  moments  when  the  years  to  come 
Lie  easily  open  like  a  much-read  book. 
Oppressed  with  weight   of   care,  in   these   last 

days 

I  have  seemed  to  see  beyond  this  bitter  time. 
We  shall  so  carry  us  in  yon  Rome-locked  seas 
That  all  the  heart  of  England  shall  be  glad, 
And  the  brown  mothers  of  these  priest-led  Dons 
Shall  scare  unruly  children  with  my  name. 
And  then,  and  then,  I  see  a  nobler  hour, 


48  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

A  day  of  mightier  battle,  when  their  fleets 
Shall  fly  in  terror  from  our  English  guns, 
And  through  the  long  hereafter  we  shall  sail 
Unquestioned  lords  of  all  the  watery  waste. 
Oh,  't  was  a  noble  dream ! 

Vicary.  But  what  were  life 

Without  the  splendid  prophecy  of  dreams  ? 

Drake.   At  least,  a  moment  they  have  given 

release 

From  sadder  thoughts  of  that  which  has  to  be. 
The  night  is  falling.     Get  we  now  aboard. 
To-morrow  you  shall  have  my  final  judgment. 

A  cabin  in  the  Pelican.     Early  morning.     The  day 
after  the  trial  and  condemnation  of  DOUGHTY. 

DOUGHTY.    Enter  WINTER. 

Doughty.   Is  there  an  hour  set  ?    When  shall 

it  be? 
Winter.   That  rests  with  you.     Alas,  too  well 

you  know 

That,  being  charged  with  certain  grave  offences, 
Of  which,  to  our  great  grief,  you  are  not  cleared, 
The  court  decreed  your  death.  Now,  I  am  come 
To  offer  you  thus  much  of  grace  — 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  49 

Doughty.  As  what  ? 

Winter.    Either  to  be  at  morning  left  ashore, 
Or  to  be  held  till,  at  convenient  time, 
A  ship  may  carry  you  to  England,  there 
To  answer  for  your  deeds  the  Lords  in  Council ; 
Or  will  you  take  to  be  here  done  to  death 
As  runs  our  sentence  ? 

Doughty.  Would  I  had  no  choice. 

That 's   a  strange    riddle !      Here    be    caskets 

three. 

'T  is  like  the  story  in  the  Venice  tale. 
Thank    Francis    Drake    for    me.     I  '11    think 

upon  it. 

And  send  me  Leonard  Vicary  with  good  speed. 
Winter.    Is  there  aught  else  a  man  may  do 

for  you  ? 
Doughty.   Yes,  come  no  more  until  I  send  for 

you. 

Winter.   Have  I  in  anything  offended  you? 
Doughty.   No,  thou  hast  too  much  loved  me ; 

that  is  all. 
The  sting  lies  there. 

Winter.  I  do  not  understand. 

Doughty.   And  I  too   well.     Wilt   send  me 
Vicary? 


50  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Winter  (aside).   As  strange  a  monitor  for  a 

mortal  hour 

As  e'er  a  sick  life's  fancy  hit  upon.  [Exit. 

Doughty  (alone).   This  is  a  sad  disguise  of 

clemency. 

Death  seemed  a  natural  and  a  safe  conclusion. 
As  one  serenely  bound  upon  a  voyage, 
I  had  turned  my  back  on  all  I  did  hold  dear, 
And  looked  no  more  to  land.     I  think,  indeed, 
Almost  the  very  touch  and  sound  of  life 
Seemed  fading,   as  when   sleep   comes  whole 
somely. 

Now  I  am  in  the  wakened  world  again, 
And  all  the  blissful  company  of  youth, 
Love,  friendship,  hope,  the  mere  esteem  of  men, 
Beckon,  and  mock  me  like  to  sunlit  fields 
Seen   from  the  wave-crests  where   a   swimmer 

strives, 

Struck  hither,  thither,  by  uneasy  seas. 
Christ  to  my  help !     Ah,  counsel  always  best. 

How  should  I  bide  upon  these  heathen  shores  ? 
Knowing  how  frail  I  be,  how  strong  a  thing 
Is  the  contagion  of  base  men's  customs. 
Alas !  alas !  I  ever  have  been  one 


FKANCIS  DRAKE  51 

That  wore  the  colour  of  the  hour's  friend. 
What !  risk  my  soul,  that  hath  an  endless  date, 
For  days  or  years  of  life  ?     That  may  not  be. 

What !  home  to  England  ?     I,  a  tainted  man ; 
That 's  the  gold  casket  where  temptation  lies. 
There  is  no  unconsidered  blade  of  grass, 
No  little  daisy,  and  no  violet  brief, 
That  does  not  hurt  me  with  its  sweet  appeal. 

[Walks  to  and  fro. 

I  mind  me  of  an  evening  —  O  my  God ! 

No !      That  way  anguish  waits.     I  '11   none  of 

that. 

Twice,  in  my  dreams  last  night,  I  saw  her  come ; 
And  twice  she  cried,  "  First  honour,  and  then 

love  !  " 

And  came  no  more.     O  Jesu,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  let  me  never  in  that  other  world 
Meet  the  sad  verdict  of  those  troubled  eyes 
I  kissed  to  tears  the  day  we  sailed  away. 

Enter  VICARY. 

You  are  most  welcome ;  sit  beside  me  here. 
I  have  found  my  sentence  in  a  woman's  eyes. 
Vicary.    I  understand. 


52  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

Doughty.  How  ever  apt  you  are ! 

That  took  my  fancy  always.     Now,  it  saves 
The  turning  of  a  dagger  in  a  wound. 
I  have  chosen  death. 

Vicary.  And  chosen  well,  I  think. 

There  was  not  one  of  us  that  said  not  so ; 
Not  one  but  wishes  life  were  possible. 

Doughty.    Set  that  aside.     It   is   not   possi 
ble. 

And  put  no  strain  upon  your  natural  self 
To  be  another  than  the  man  you  are. 
Do  you  remember  once  a  thing  you  said,  — 
How  for  the  wise  the  soul  has  chapels  four  ? 
One,  that  I  name  not.     One,  a  home  of  tears. 
One,  the  grave  shrine  of  high  philosophy. 
And  one,  where  all  the  saints  are  jesters  gay. 
Smile  on  me  when  I  die.     In  that  dim  world 
I  am  assured  men  laugh,  as  well  they  may, 
To  see  this  ant-heap  stirred.     Oh,  I  shall  look 
To  see  you  smile. 

Vicary.  I  pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

Doughty.   And  wherefore  not  ?     A  moment, 

only  one, 

The  thought  of  England  troubled  my  decision ; 
But  that  is  over.     Yet,  a  word  of  home. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  53 

There  is  a  maid  in  Devon  —  (Hesitates.*)    Par 
don  me. 

When,  by  God's  grace,  you  see  her,  as  you  must, 
Tell  her  I  loved  her  well,  —  and  what  beside 
I  leave  to  you.     I  shall  not  hear  the  tale. 
Be  gentle  in  the  way  of  your  report. 
Ah  me !  by  every  cross  a  woman  kneels  ; 
I  doubt  not,  Leonard,  that  some  Syrian  girl 
Sobbed   where    the   thief    hung   dying.     Now, 

good-by ! 
Go !  and  remember  —  I  shall  hold  you  to  it. 

[Exit  Vicary. 

Oft  when  the  tides  of  life  were  at  their  full, 
I  have  sat  wondering  what  the  ebb  would  be, 
And  what  that  tideless  moment  men  call  death. 
I  think  it  strange  as  nears  the  coming  hour, 
I  willingly  would  fetch  it  yet  more  near. 

Vicary  (without,  as   he  goes  on  deck).    He 
asks  a  smile  where  nature  proffers  tears. 
I  have  laughed  tears  before,  and  may  again. 
Here  dies  a  man  who,  like  that  heir  of  Lynne, 
Has  madly  squandered  honour,  friendship,  love, 
And  hath  no  refuge  save  the  dismal  rope. 
Shall  that  bring  other  fortunes  than  he  spent  ? 
Ah  me !  I  loved  him  well,  —  and  I  must  smile ;  — 


54  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

That  will  seem  strange  to  men.     I   sometimes 

wish. 
I  could  feel  sure  that  Christ  did  ever  smile. 

Enter  DRAKE. 

Drake.    I  come  to  hear  thy  choice. 

Doughty.  My  choice  is  made. 

Death,  and  no  long  delay.    And  be  not  troubled ; 
You  will  —  ah,  well  I  know  you  —  feel  the  hurt. 
Were  you  to  say,  "  Take  life,  take  hope  again, 
Take  back  command,"  and  bid  me  mend  my 

ways, 

The  mercy  were  but  vanity  of  kindness. 
Never  could  I  be  other  than  I  am ; 
Yet  think  of  me  as  but  the  minute's  traitor. 
You  have  been  merciful.     'T  is  I  am  stern. 
Not  you,  but  I,  decree  that  I  shall  die. 
A  sudden  weariness  of  life  is  mine ; 
Let  me  depart  in  peace  — 

Drake.  Must  it  be  so  ? 

Another  court  may  clear  you. 

Doughty.  Urge  me  not. 

Another  court !     There  is  but  one  high  court 
May  clear  my  soul  of  guilt.     I  go  to  God. 
There  shall  be  witnesses  you  may  not  call. 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  55 

Let  this  suffice.     No  man  can  move  me  now ; 
And  rest  assured  I  never  loved  you  more. 

Drake.    I  thank  you.     Now,  what  else  ? 

Doughty.  I  choose  to  die. 

Go  we  ashore  at  noon,  and  eat  at  table, 
Like  gentlemen  who  speed  a  parting  friend 
Upon  a  pleasant  and  a  certain  voyage. 
And  I  would  share  with  you  the  bread  of  God. 

[Pauses. 
There  is  one  thing  more,  but  one ! 

Drake.  Speak !     Oh,  my  God ! 

Except  —  except  mere  life,  there  is  no  thing 
I  would  not  give  you ;  yea,  to  my  own  life. 

Doughty.   You   cannot   think   that   I  would 
ask  my  life  ? 

Drake.    Pardon,  sweet  gentleman,  and  sweeter 
friend. 

Doughty.   There  is  a  maid  in  Devon  —    Oh, 

Frank  Drake ! 

It  must  not  be  the  gibbet  and  the  rope ! 
The  axe  and  block,  men  say,  cure  all  disgrace. 

Drake.    So  shall  it  be. 

Doughty.  I  knew  you  not  unkind. 

I  pray  you  leave  me  now.     God  prosper  you. 
You  cannot  know  how  kind  a  thing  is  death. 


56  FRANCIS  DEAKE 

Island  of  St.  Julian.  Table  spread  at  noon,  under 
the  trees.  DRAKE  seated  with  DOUGHTY  and 
other  officers.  In  the  background,  a  block,  with 
the  headsman,  sailors,  and  others. 

Vic  ART  and  WINTER  approach  the  table. 

Vicary.   Didst  hear,  John  Winter,  what  he 

said  to  him  ? 
Winter.   I  had  but  come  ashore.     What  said 

he,  Leonard? 
Vicary.    First,  he  would  have   the   admiral 

take  the  bread  ; 
Then,  when   in   turn   the   priest   did   come   to 

him, 

He  said,  I  would  another  man  than  you 
Were  here  to  give  me  of  this  bread  of  God. 
Yet,  as  for  this  dear  body  of  my  Lord, 
A  pearl  that  's  carried  in  a  robber's  pouch 
Doth  lose  no  lustre ;  and  with  no  more  words 
Took  of  the  sacrament ;  and  so  to  table. 

[They  approach  sadly  and  in  silence. 

Doughty.   Come,   come,   I  '11   none   of   this ! 

Here  are  bent  brows ; 
You  go  not  thus  to  battle.     Shall  one  death 


FRANCIS  DRAKE  57 

Disturb  our  appetites  and  spoil  our  mirth  ? 
Am  I  not  host  ?  They  '11  not  be  bid  again 
Who  come  not  merry.  (Aside  to  Vicary.)  See 

you  fail  me  not. 

Some  men  ask  prayers.     I  only  ask  a  smile. 
(Aloud.)  Come,  gentlemen,  I  put  this  hardship 

on  you. 

There  might  be  many  questions,  much  to  say. 
Drake.   I  shall  sit  here  forever,  if  you  will, 
But  talk  I  cannot. 

Doughty.  Nay,  but  that  is  strange. 

'T  is  the  glad  privilege  of  the  gentle  born 
To  see  in  death  an  honest  creditor, 
That  any  day  may  ask  the  debt  of  life. 
What !  must  I  make  the  talk?    That  's  naughty 

manners. 

I  never  was  a  happier  man  than  now. 
There  's  few  among   you  shall  have  choice  of 

deaths. 
And  you,  Frank  Drake?  —  if  God  should  bid 

elect, 
What  way  to  death  wouldst  choose  ? 

Drake.  I  do  not  know  — 

Not  in  my  bed,  please  God. 

Doughty.  Speak  for  him,  Leonard. 


58  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

I  think  my  friend  has  shed  his  wits  to-day. 
Once  he  was  readier  — 

Vicary.  Were  I  Francis  Drake, 

When  waves  are  wild  and  fly  the  bolts  of  war, 
And  timbers  crash,  and  decks  are  bloody  red, 
Then  would  I  pass,  slain  by  my  loving  sea, 
As  died  the  hurt  Greek  by  a  friendly  sword. 
Doughty.   Full  bravely  answered.     Winter, 

what  of  you  ? 
Winter.   As  God  may  will.     I  have  no  other 

thought. 
Doughty  (to  Vicary).   And  what,  dear  jester, 

Leonard,  what  of  you  ? 
Vicary.    Oh,  between  kisses,  of   a  morn  of 

May, 

Or  in  the  merriest  moment  of  a  fight, 
When  blades  are  out,  and  the  brave  Dons  stand 

fast  — 

Upon  my  soul,  I  can  no  more  of  this, 
You  ask  too  much  of  man.     I  can  no  more ! 

[Leaves  the  table. 
Doughty.   Now  here  's  a  dull  companion.    Go 

not  yet,  — 

Or  go  not  far,  and  let  not  sorrow  cheat  me. 
Vicary.    Oh,  I  shall  smile.     Rest  you  assured 
of  that.  [Moves  away. 


FRANCIS  DEAKE  59 

Doughty.    I  thought  he  had  been  made  of 

sterner  stuff. 
There 's  a  too  gentle  jester.    (  To  Drake.)   Think 

you,  Frank, 
That  we  shall  meet  in  heaven  ? 

Drake.  Such  is  my  trust. 

[They  talk  in  whispers. 
Doughty   (aloud').    The   wind    lies    fair   to 

south.     Friends,  gentles,  all, 
It  were  not  well  to  lose  a  prospering  hour. 
God  send  you  kindly  gales  and  gallant  ventures  ! 
Strike  hard  for  me,  John  Winter !     When  the 

Dons 

Are  thick  about  you  and  the  fight  goes  ill, 
Cry,  This  is  for  remembrance  !     This,  and  this  ! 
And  you,  dear  Leonard,  when  the  feast  is  gay 
Drink  double  for  your  friend.     Be  sure  my  lips 
Shall  share  with  yours  the  laughter  and  the  cup. 

[Rises,  as  do  all. 
Now,  then :  The  Queen  and  England !  (Drinks.) 

(To  Drake.)   Take  my  love. 
Still  let  me  live  a  friendly  memory  — 
Come  with  me. 

Drake.  No,  I  cannot,  cannot  come ! 


60  FEANCIS  DRAKE 

Doughty  (to    Vicary,  as  they   walk   to  the 
block.)     What,  not  a  smile  ?     Not  one  ? 
That 's  better,  Leonard, 
Albeit  of  a  rather  sickly  sort. 
Come    hither,    Francis    Drake.     {Drake     ap 
proaches.)    Good-by,  dear  friend. 
[Kisses  Mm  on  both  cheeks.     Kneels,  and  the  axe  falls. 
Vicary.    God  rest  this  soul ! 
Winter.  Amen ! 

Drake.  Christ  comfort  me ! 


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